Goblin Market

Christina Rossetti

                               MORNING and evening
                               Maids heard the goblins cry:
                               "Come buy our orchard fruits,
                               Come buy, come buy:
                               Apples and quinces,
                               Lemons and oranges,
                               Plump unpecked cherries-
                               Melons and raspberries,
                               Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
                               Swart-headed mulberries,
                               Wild free-born cranberries,
                               Crab-apples, dewberries,
                               Pine-apples, blackberries,
                               Apricots, strawberries--
                               All ripe together
                               In summer weather--
                               Morns that pass by,
                               Fair eves that fly;
                               Come buy, come buy;
                               Our grapes fresh from the vine,
                               Pomegranates full and fine,
                               Dates and sharp bullaces,
                               Rare pears and greengages,
                               Damsons and bilberries,
                               Taste them and try:
                               Currants and gooseberries,
                               Bright-fire-like barberries,
                               Figs to fill your mouth,
                               Citrons from the South,
                               Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
                               Come buy, come buy."

                               Evening by evening
                               Among the brookside rushes,
                               Laura bowed her head to hear,
                               Lizzie veiled her blushes:
                               Crouching close together
                               In the cooling weather,
                               With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
                               With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
                               "Lie close," Laura said,
                               Pricking up her golden head:
                               We must not look at goblin men,
                               We must not buy their fruits:
                               Who knows upon what soil they fed
                               Their hungry thirsty roots?"
                               "Come buy," call the goblins
                               Hobbling down the glen.
                               "O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
                               You should not peep at goblin men."
                               Lizzie covered up her eyes
                               Covered close lest they should look;
                               Laura reared her glossy head,
                               And whispered like the restless brook:
                               "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
                               Down the glen tramp little men.
                               One hauls a basket,
                               One bears a plate,
                               One lugs a golden dish
                               Of many pounds' weight.
                               How fair the vine must grow
                               Whose grapes are so luscious;
                               How warm the wind must blow
                               Through those fruit bushes."
                               "No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no;
                               Their offers should not charm us,
                               Their evil gifts would harm us."
                               She thrust a dimpled finger
                               In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
                               Curious Laura chose to linger
                               Wondering at each merchant man.
                               One had a cat's face,
                               One whisked a tail,
                               One tramped at a rat's pace,
                               One crawled like a snail,
                               One like a wombat prowled obtuse and
                               One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
                               Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
                               Cooing all together:
                               They sounded kind and full of loves
                               In the pleasant weather.

                               Laura stretched her gleaming neck
                               Like a rush-imbedded swan,
                               Like a lily from the beck,
                               Like a moonlit poplar branch,
                               Like a vessel at the launch
                               When its last restraint is gone.

                               Backwards up the mossy glen
                               Turned and trooped the goblin men,
                               With their shrill repeated cry,
                               "Come buy, come buy."
                               When they reached where Laura was
                               They stood stock still upon the moss,
                               Leering at each other,
                               Brother with queer brother;
                               Signalling each other,
                               Brother with sly brother.
                               One set his basket down,
                               One reared his plate;
                               One began to weave a crown
                               Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
                               (Men sell not such in any town);
                               One heaved the golden weight
                               Of dish and fruit to offer her:
                               "Come buy, come buy," was still their
                               Laura stared but did not stir,
                               Longed but had no money:
                               The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
                               In tones as smooth as honey,
                               The cat-faced purr'd,
                               The rat-paced spoke a word
                               Of welcome, and the snail-paced even
                               was heard;
                               One parrot-voiced and jolly
                               Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty
                               One whistled like a bird.

                               But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
                               "Good folk, I have no coin;
                               To take were to purloin:
                               I have no copper in my purse,
                               I have no silver either,
                               And all my gold is on the furze
                               That shakes in windy weather
                               Above the rusty heather."
                               "You have much gold upon your head,"
                               They answered altogether:
                               "Buy from us with a golden curl."
                               She clipped a precious golden lock,
                               She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
                               Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
                               Sweeter than honey from the rock,
                               Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
                               Clearer than water flowed that juice;
                               She never tasted such before,
                               How should it cloy with length of use?
                               She sucked and sucked and sucked the
                               Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
                               She sucked until her lips were sore;
                               Then flung the emptied rinds away,
                               But gathered up one kernel stone,
                               And knew not was it night or day
                               As she turned home alone.

                               Lizzie met her at the gate
                               Full of wise upbraidings:
                               "Dear, you should not stay so late,
                               Twilight is not good for maidens;
                               Should not loiter in the glen
                               In the haunts of goblin men.
                               Do you not remember Jeanie,
                               How she met them in the moonlight,
                               Took their gifts both choice and many,
                               Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
                               Plucked from bowers
                               Where summer ripens at all hours?
                               But ever in the moonlight
                               She pined and pined away;
                               Sought them by night and day,
                               Found them no more, but dwindled and
                               grew gray;
                               Then fell with the first snow,
                               While to this day no grass will grow
                               Where she lies low:
                               I planted daisies there a year ago
                               That never blow.
                               You should not loiter so."
                               "Nay hush," said Laura.
                               "Nay hush, my sister:
                               I ate and ate my fill,
                               Yet my mouth waters still;
                               To-morrow night I will
                               Buy more," and kissed her.
                               "Have done with sorrow;
                               I'll bring you plums to-morrow
                               Fresh on their mother twigs,
                               Cherries worth getting;
                               You cannot think what figs
                               My teeth have met in,
                               What melons, icy-cold
                               Piled on a dish of gold
                               Too huge for me to hold,
                               What peaches with a velvet nap,
                               Pellucid grapes without one seed:
                               Odorous indeed must be the mead
                               Whereon they grow, and pure the wave
                               they drink,
                               With lilies at the brink,
                               And sugar-sweet their sap."

                               Golden head by golden head,
                               Like two pigeons in one nest
                               Folded in each other's wings,
                               They lay down, in their curtained bed:
                               Like two blossoms on one stem,
                               Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
                               Like two wands of ivory
                               Tipped with gold for awful kings.
                               Moon and stars beamed in at them,
                               Wind sang to them lullaby,
                               Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
                               Not a bat flapped to and fro
                               Round their rest:
                               Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
                               Locked together in one nest.

                               Early in the morning
                               When the first cock crowed his warning,
                               Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
                               Laura rose with Lizzie:
                               Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
                               Aired and set to rights the house,
                               Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
                               Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
                               Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
                               Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
                               Talked as modest maidens should
                               Lizzie with an open heart,
                               Laura in an absent dream,
                               One content, one sick in part;
                               One warbling for the mere bright day's
                               One longing for the night.

                               At length slow evening came--
                               They went with pitchers to the reedy
                               Lizzie most placid in her look,
                               Laura most like a leaping flame.
                               They drew the gurgling water from its
                               Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden
                               Then turning homeward said: "The sunset
                               Those furthest loftiest crags;
                               Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
                               No wilful squirrel wags,
                               The beasts and birds are fast asleep."
                               But Laura loitered still among the rushes
                               And said the bank was steep.

                               And said the hour was early still,
                               The dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
                               Listening ever, but not catching
                               The customary cry,
                               "Come buy, come buy,"
                               With its iterated jingle
                               Of sugar-baited words:
                               Not for all her watching
                               Once discerning even one goblin
                               Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
                               Let alone the herds
                               That used to tramp along the glen,
                               In groups or single,
                               Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

                               Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come,
                               I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
                               You should not loiter longer at this brook:
                               Come with me home.
                               The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
                               Each glow-worm winks her spark,
                               Let us get home before the night grows
                               For clouds may gather even
                               Though this is summer weather,
                               Put out the lights and drench us through;
                               Then if we lost our way what should we

                               Laura turned cold as stone
                               To find her sister heard that cry alone,
                               That goblin cry,
                               "Come buy our fruits, come buy."
                               Must she then buy no more such dainty
                               Must she no more such succous pasture
                               Gone deaf and blind?
                               Her tree of life drooped from the root:
                               She said not one word in her heart's sore
                               But peering thro' the dimness, naught
                               Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all
                               the way;
                               So crept to bed, and lay
                               Silent 'til Lizzie slept;
                               Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
                               And gnashed her teeth for balked desire,
                               and wept
                               As if her heart would break.

                               Day after day, night after night,
                               Laura kept watch in vain,
                               In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
                               She never caught again the goblin cry:
                               "Come buy, come buy,"
                               She never spied the goblin men
                               Hawking their fruits along the glen:
                               But when the noon waxed bright
                               Her hair grew thin and gray;
                               She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth
                               To swift decay, and burn
                               Her fire away.

                               One day remembering her kernel-stone
                               She set it by a wall that faced the south;
                               Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
                               Watched for a waxing shoot,
                               But there came none;
                               It never saw the sun,
                               It never felt the trickling moisture run:
                               While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
                               She dreamed of melons, as a traveller
                               False waves in desert drouth
                               With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
                               And burns the thirstier in the sandful

                               She no more swept the house,
                               Tended the fowls or cows,
                               Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
                               Brought water from the brook:
                               But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
                               And would not eat.

                               Tender Lizzie could not bear
                               To watch her sister's cankerous care,
                               Yet not to share.
                               She night and morning
                               Caught the goblins' cry:
                               "Come buy our orchard fruits,
                               Come buy, come buy."
                               Beside the brook, along the glen
                               She heard the tramp of goblin men,
                               The voice and stir
                               Poor Laura could not hear;
                               Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
                               But feared to pay too dear.

                               She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
                               Who should have been a bride;
                               But who for joys brides hope to have
                               Fell sick and died
                               In her gay prime,
                               In earliest winter-time,
                               With the first glazing rime,
                               With the first snow-fall of crisp

                               Till Laura, dwindling,
                               Seemed knocking at Death's door:
                               Then Lizzie weighed no more
                               Better and worse,
                               But put a silver penny in her purse,
                               Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with
                               clumps of furze
                               At twilight, halted by the brook,
                               And for the first time in her life
                               Began to listen and look.

                               Laughed every goblin
                               When they spied her peeping:
                               Came towards her hobbling,
                               Flying, running, leaping,
                               Puffing and blowing,
                               Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
                               Clucking and gobbling,
                               Mopping and mowing,
                               Full of airs and graces,
                               Pulling wry faces,
                               Demure grimaces,
                               Cat-like and rat-like,
                               Ratel and wombat-like,
                               Snail-paced in a hurry,
                               Parrot-voiced and whistler,
                               Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
                               Chattering like magpies,
                               Fluttering like pigeons,
                               Gliding like fishes, --
                               Hugged her and kissed her;
                               Squeezed and caressed her;
                               Stretched up their dishes,
                               Panniers and plates:
                               "Look at our apples
                               Russet and dun,
                               Bob at our cherries
                               Bite at our peaches,
                               Citrons and dates,
                               Grapes for the asking,
                               Pears red with basking
                               Out in the sun,
                               Plums on their twigs;
                               Pluck them and suck them,
                               Pomegranates, figs."

                               "Good folk," said Lizzie,
                               Mindful of Jeanie,
                               "Give me much and many"; --
                               Held out her apron,
                               Tossed them her penny.
                               "Nay, take a seat with us,
                               Honor and eat with us,"
                               They answered grinning;
                               "Our feast is but beginning.
                               Night yet is early,
                               Warm and dew-pearly,
                               Wakeful and starry:
                               Such fruits as these
                               No man can carry;
                               Half their bloom would fly,
                               Half their dew would dry,
                               Half their flavor would pass by.
                               Sit down and feast with us,
                               Be welcome guest with us,
                               Cheer you and rest with us."
                               "Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
                               At home alone for me:
                               So, without further parleying,
                               If you will not sell me any
                               Of your fruits though much and many,
                               Give me back my silver penny
                               I tossed you for a fee."
                               They began to scratch their pates,
                               No longer wagging, purring,
                               But visibly demurring,
                               Grunting and snarling.
                               One called her proud,
                               Cross-grained, uncivil;
                               Their tones waxed loud,
                               Their looks were evil.
                               Lashing their tails
                               They trod and hustled her,
                               Elbowed and jostled her,
                               Clawed with their nails,
                               Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
                               Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
                               Twitched her hair out by the roots,
                               Stamped upon her tender feet,
                               Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
                               Against her mouth to make her eat. 

                               White and golden Lizzie stood,
                               Like a lily in a flood,
                               Like a rock of blue-veined stone
                               Lashed by tides obstreperously, --
                               Like a beacon left alone
                               In a hoary roaring sea,
                               Sending up a golden fire, --
                               Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
                               White with blossoms honey-sweet
                               Sore beset by wasp and bee, --
                               Like a royal virgin town
                               Topped with gilded dome and spire
                               Close beleaguered by a fleet
                               Mad to tear her standard down. 

                               One may lead a horse to water,
                               Twenty cannot make him drink.
                               Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
                               Coaxed and fought her,
                               Bullied and besought her,
                               Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
                               Kicked and knocked her,
                               Mauled and mocked her,
                               Lizzie uttered not a word;
                               Would not open lip from lip
                               Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
                               But laughed in heart to feel the drip
                               Of juice that syruped all her face,
                               And lodged in dimples of her chin,
                               And streaked her neck which quaked
                               like curd.
                               At last the evil people,
                               Worn out by her resistance,
                               Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
                               Along whichever road they took,
                               Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
                               Some writhed into the ground,
                               Some dived into the brook
                               With ring and ripple.
                               Some scudded on the gale without a
                               Some vanished in the distance. 

                               In a smart, ache, tingle,
                               Lizzie went her way;
                               Knew not was it night or day;
                               Sprang up the bank, tore through the
                               Threaded copse and dingle,
                               And heard her penny jingle
                               Bouncing in her purse, --
                               Its bounce was music to her ear.
                               She ran and ran
                               As if she feared some goblin man
                               Dogged her with gibe or curse
                               Or something worse:
                               But not one goblin skurried after,
                               Nor was she pricked by fear;
                               The kind heart made her windy-paced
                               That urged her home quite out of breath
                               with haste
                               And inward laughter. 

                               She cried "Laura," up the garden,
                               "Did you miss me ?
                               Come and kiss me.
                               Never mind my bruises,
                               Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
                               Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
                               Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
                               Eat me, drink me, love me;
                               Laura, make much of me:
                               For your sake I have braved the glen
                               And had to do with goblin merchant

                               Laura started from her chair,
                               Flung her arms up in the air,
                               Clutched her hair:
                               "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
                               For my sake the fruit forbidden?
                               Must your light like mine be hidden,
                               Your young life like mine be wasted,
                               Undone in mine undoing,
                               And ruined in my ruin;
                               Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?"
                               She clung about her sister,
                               Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
                               Tears once again
                               Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
                               Dropping like rain
                               After long sultry drouth;
                               Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
                               She kissed and kissed her with a hungry

                               Her lips began to scorch,
                               That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
                               She loathed the feast:
                               Writhing as one possessed she leaped
                               and sung,
                               Rent all her robe, and wrung
                               Her hands in lamentable haste,
                               And beat her breast.
                               Her locks streamed like the torch
                               Borne by a racer at full speed,
                               Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
                               Or like an eagle when she stems the light
                               Straight toward the sun,
                               Or like a caged thing freed,
                               Or like a flying flag when armies run. 

                               Swift fire spread through her veins,
                               knocked at her heart,
                               Met the fire smouldering there
                               And overbore its lesser flame,
                               She gorged on bitterness without a name:
                               Ah! fool, to choose such part
                               Of soul-consuming care!
                               Sense failed in the mortal strife:
                               Like the watch-tower of a town
                               Which an earthquake shatters down,
                               Like a lightning-stricken mast,
                               Like a wind-uprooted tree
                               Spun about,
                               Like a foam-topped water-spout
                               Cast down headlong in the sea,
                               She fell at last;
                               Pleasure past and anguish past,
                               Is it death or is it life ? 

                               Life out of death.
                               That night long Lizzie watched by her,
                               Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
                               Felt for her breath,
                               Held water to her lips, and cooled her
                               With tears and fanning leaves:
                               But when the first birds chirped about
                               their eaves,
                               And early reapers plodded to the place
                               Of golden sheaves,
                               And dew-wet grass
                               Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to
                               And new buds with new day
                               Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
                               Laura awoke as from a dream,
                               Laughed in the innocent old way,
                               Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
                               Her gleaming locks showed not one
                               thread of gray,
                               Her breath was sweet as May,
                               And light danced in her eyes. 

                               Days, weeks, months,years
                               Afterwards, when both were wives
                               With children of their own;
                               Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
                               Their lives bound up in tender lives;
                               Laura would call the little ones
                               And tell them of her early prime,
                               Those pleasant days long gone
                               Of not-returning time:
                               Would talk about the haunted glen,
                               The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
                               Their fruits like honey to the throat,
                               But poison in the blood;
                               (Men sell not such in any town;)
                               Would tell them how her sister stood
                               In deadly peril to do her good,
                               And win the fiery antidote:
                               Then joining hands to little hands
                               Would bid them cling together,
                               "For there is no friend like a sister,
                               In calm or stormy weather,
                               To cheer one on the tedious way,
                               To fetch one if one goes astray,
                               To lift one if one totters down,
                               To strengthen whilst one stands."

Christina Rossetti: site and source of text (Brown University)